FLOWERDALE.
How now? fie, sit in the open room? now, good Sir
Lancelot, & my kind friend worshipful Master
Weathercock! What, at your pint? a quart for shame.
LANCELOT.
Nay, Royster, by your leave we will away.
FLOWERDALE.
Come, give’s some Music, we’ll go dance. Begone,
Sir Lancelot? what, and fair day too?
LUCY.
Twere foully done, to dance within the fair.
FLOWERDALE. Nay, if you say so, fairest of all fairs, then I’ll not dance. A pox upon my tailor, he hath spoiled me a peach colour satin shirt, cut upon cloth of silver, but if ever the rascal serve me such another trick, I’ll give him leave, yfaith, to put me in the calendar of fools: and you, and you, Sir Lancelot and Master Weathercock. My goldsmith too, on tother side—I bespoke thee, Lucy, a carkenet of gold, and thought thou shouldst a had it for a fairing, and the rogue puts me in rearages for Orient Pearl: but thou shalt have it by Sunday night, wench.
[Enter the Drawer.]
DRAWER. Sir, here is one hath sent you a pottle of rennish wine, brewed with rosewater.
FLOWERDALE.
To me?
DRAWER.
No, sir, to the knight; and desires his more acquaintance.
LANCELOT.
To me? what’s he that proves so kind?